Just call me Marathon Woman

SO, we’re officially halfway through 2013 already. It’s been a fairly crazy and long six months my end but I’m starting to see some green shoots and rays of light battling their way through the darkness of the building site where I currently reside. And no, these lights and greenery are not the overgrown wilderness of the garden attempting to take root inside the house. They are, in fact, signs of progress in the form of painted walls, new doors and the star of the show ladies and gentlemen, a brand new bathroom which is on the cusp of greatness, needing just a few finishing touches to warrant cutting the ribbon and opening that £6 bottle of cava in the cupboard. Not to say that’s the same bottle of cava that I bought in January in anticipation of this day. It may have been taken and then replaced a number of times since then. Like I said, it’s been a long six months.

As for the marathon: I went, I ran, I conquered… and raised almost 1,200 euro for a charity which is important to so many people for so many reasons. If I was to try and find words to describe the experience, I would obviously say ‘incredible’ but I would also probably add ‘horrific’.

It all starts out so well, channelling Sonia O Sullivan and kicking the whole thing off with ACDC's Highway to Hell, but once the 15th mile hits, the walls start coming up and the pain sets in. You try thinking positive thoughts - why you’re doing it and how wonderful it’s going to feel when you finish it - but these thoughts don’t have the desired affect and you start to fall apart a little in your head. Then an elderly man, must have been pushing 75 at least, practically skips past me, followed shortly after by a guy dressed in a kilt and playing the bagpipes as he jogged. I stared after them and the shame made me pick up my pace again. Don’t get me wrong, the support on the day was incredible. Complete strangers thrusting orange slices, jelly babies and bottles of water into my hands and telling me how great I am was definitely one of the better days of my life. Seeing Himself at the 16th mile was a welcome sight – until he started trying to follow and film me, at which point I tried to desperately shake him off, a feat which is difficult in itself when you can barely run anymore and so end up looking like an angry penguin waddling away from the wildlife photographer while turning back to give him the evil eye. Seeing my parents at the finish line - my mam centre court as it were - nearly blinding me with her delighted beam of a smile and clapping hysterically as I limped by. Great memories and the sense of achievement is something else and leaves you on a high for days after. Of course, that ‘high’ could also be attributed to the amount of painkillers you consume to stop your legs screaming at you for forcing them to run 26.2 miles.

And there’s also now the bonus that whenever I’m feeling a bit low, I remind myself that I ran a marathon. My legs may wince but my mind applauds.